Erotophobia
by Stella Dellasera
Summary: This is my first venture into fan fiction. Other authors have explored the Martin-Louisa relationship so well already but I just couldn't resist having some fun with Martin. So this is my take on S2E8, a day in the life of DM in four parts. Please be aware this is rated M, not because of the first chapter but later on.
1. Chapter 1

Part 1: That Feeling You Get…

Martin was having a very bad day.

He'd woken up on the floor of his kitchen, still dressed, and with a pounding headache. This was most unlike him. To make matters worse, that shaggy mutt was curled up there with him. Really, why was it so attached to the one person in the village that despised it?

Things only went downhill from there. He staggered to his feet, his grey worsted jacket covered with dog hair, and managed to spill red wine on himself, and all just as the surgery reception was filling up for the day. He forgot to duck in the hallway and whacked his head hard on the lintel, and he yelped agonizingly, unable to contain himself, knowing everyone in reception could hear his humiliation, not to mention it didn't help his headache one bit.

It looked to be a busy day, every punter in Portwenn had managed to come down with some ache or pain or other and was waiting to see him for it. Honestly these people couldn't tie their own shoes without getting a splinter and then getting an infection from it.

He strode into reception, trying to maintain some dignity, and announced, "Surgery will be running a little late this morning," but they all chuckled as he bolted up the stairs. He quickly brushed his teeth, changed his clothes, and swallowed a couple of paracetamol with a long drink of water. No time for breakfast, not that he stomach anything anyway.

On top of everything, from the comments he could overhear he strongly suspected Pauline had documented his kitchen floor nap with her mobile camera and sent the photo around.

First up in surgery was Elaine Alderman, a 30-ish blonde who sounded sincere enough about her symptoms. "I do feel my glands are up so I thought maybe you'd have a look," she said.

Martin told her to open up, but she pulled away as he got near. "I'm sorry I can't see if you turn your head away," he said.

"I'm sorry, it's just… have you been drinking?" she said, cringing.

Then came Bert Large.

"Doc," he said, "you know that feeling you get when you've got a headache coming, you know just behind the eyes, and it's here too, and then it spreads, throbs, you know, like a scaled up old boiler, but it's not just there, it's also in your stomach, and then your water works, and you've got to run to the toilet?"

"How long have you had this feeling?" asked Martin.

"Oh not me, Doc. No, you. Who's the lucky tippler then? Is it someone we know or as rumoured is it just you and your canine friend Woof Woof?"

Now Martin was really annoyed. "Get out!" he shouted.

"Hair of the dog, Doc?" Bert said, offering him a flask.

"Get out Bert!"

Bert went out to reception. "He's not in the mood," he mumbled to the others.

"That's right, I'm not in the mood," Martin snarled. "If any of you are offended by the fact that last night I drank wine, or you've come to waste my time with infantile jokes, then you can bugger off. Next patient please Pauline!"

Bert took off with Al, but he couldn't resist a parting shot: "Come on, let sleeping dogs lie, eh?"

_"__That's not funny!"_

They all laughed anyway.

Back in his office with door closed, Martin did a quick rinse with some mouthwash and called for the next patient.

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2: Love Hurts

Next up were three teenage girls, Toni, Tori, and Teri, or something like that, all members of the girl gang that roamed the narrow streets of Portwenn like a pack of giggling feral dogs. He could never keep them straight, as they seemed to age out and be replaced by fresh tank-top-and-flip-flop-wearing girls on a regular basis.

The trio formed a mini-gang that barged into his office together. He made them go out and come in again one at a time, even though he could see they all had the same symptom – a bright red open lesion on the lip.

"Herpes labialis, also known as orolabial herpes, caused by herpes simplex virus 1," he told the first one. The girl, Teri probably, made a face. "Herpes!" she exclaimed. "I thought you got that… you know… in your fanny." She waved in a vague direction down under.

"It's just a common cold sore. Genital herpes is mostly caused by HSV 2, it's related but not identical. Ever had this before? Anyone in your family have it?" he said.

She shook her head.

"Been kissing anyone lately?"

"Just Dave Jackson. You know, he cleans up at the leisure centre. Got dreamy blue eyes."

Martin checked her temperature and her lymph glands. "No temperature or swelling. The lesion is at the most contagious stage right now, so avoid touching the area and wash your hands thoroughly if you do. It should start crusting over and healing up in a day or two. It's likely to recur every so often though. Avoid sharing drinks or cigarettes, kissing, or having any other contact with anyone until it's completely gone. In the meantime, I'll give you a prescription for a topical antiviral agent."

The other two had apparently also been keeping company with the dreamy Dave. He gave them all the same advice and prescription. "And stay away from Mr. Jackson, he's likely the source of your infection, unless you've been touching each other."

That got them giggling again. "If we were, you'd probably want to watch us, init Doc?" said Toni or Tori.

"Get out, all of you!" he snarled.

As they exited, Eddie Rix came in. This time around the scruffy fisherman had first degree burns and superficial abrasions to the inside of his thighs. Martin groaned to himself. There seemed to be a theme of sexual misadventure shaping up to the day.

"I know I can trust you to be discrete, Doc. You see…" Rix began, "my Gloria does this thing where she drips candle wax and then takes a knife, not too sharp mind you, and…"

"Mr. Rix!" Martin hastily cut him off, as he really didn't want to hear any more. It had taken too long to get the previous image of the hairy, overweight man done up in bondage straps out of his head. "I realize you and your wife enjoy adding some… er, spice… to your, um, marital relations, but you both really need to take some precautions to carry on with your activities in a safer manner."

He cast around in his mind for some sort of advice but nothing in his medical training had prepared him for this. "I suppose," he stammered, "for instance, if in the heat of the, uh, activities, you're prone to forgetting your… er, safe word… why not write it on a bit of cardboard ahead of time and tape it to the wall where you can, er, be reminded of it… as needed."

"Brilliant idea, Doc." Rix seemed genuinely pleased. "I can't afford to be not be going out on me boat any more. Still, you always hurt the one you love, eh Doc? Or get hurt by them. Looks like you might know something about that," he added, pointing at the welt on Martin's forehead.

"That has nothing to do with anything, never mind about my private business," Martin sputtered. "I've given you my advice, that's all I have to say."

You'll probably just carry on getting yourself beaten to a bloody pulp anyway since that's what seems to get you off, Martin thought as Rix departed.

"Dave Jackson," announced Pauline, as she handed him the next patient's notes.

Jackson was a pasty 19-year-old, with light brown hair falling into his eyes, a weak attempt at a moustache, a metal stud in his left eyebrow, and the sort of O-ring earrings favoured by today's youth for the stretched out earlobe look. So this was what passed for dreamy for the modern adolescent girl, Martin thought grimly.

"Hmm, no cold sore today, eh?" he said.

"Whuh? Naw, haven't had one of those in a few weeks," the youth replied.

"Well, when you do get one, you need to keep it to yourself until it's completely healed up. Rumour has it you've been spreading it amongst the dimmer sort of teenage girl all over Portwenn," Martin said. "Anything else you've been spreading around that I'll shortly be hearing about?"

"No Doc, that's what I'm here about. You see, when I, uh, get pumped up, it hurts. Not normal, init.

"What d'you mean it hurts?"

"I mean, it _hurts!_ Like an elastic band wrapped around my todger."

"All right, let me have a look." Martin's professional manner concealed his distaste as he set up the screen by the examination table and motioned for the youth to drop his trousers and pants and demonstrate just at what stage of erection the discomfort began. Turned out to be just as he suspected, young Jackson had a tight foreskin that wasn't retracting properly. It certainly did look painful, even Eddie Rix couldn't possibly enjoy that sort of situation, Martin thought.

"You have a condition called phimosis, possibly pathological," he said, snapping off his latex gloves after the examination. "I'm going to refer you to a urologist in Truro. There are various treatment options, but the most likely course of action is circumcision."

"What! They're gonna cut me down there!?" Young Jackson turned even paler than his normally pasty hue."

"It's effective in removing the source of, er, discomfort. Also some studies have shown it may confer secondary benefits in helping reduce the incidence of certain, um, sexually transmitted infections. And it's hardly worse than the sort of procedures you've apparently volunteered to have done to yourself, no doubt carried out by unwashed strangers in some dingy piercing shop," Martin added with scorn.

How much more of this could he take? Next up was Einar Robinson, a 40-year-old farmer from just outside the village. Martin wrinkled his nose at the faint odour of manure the man carried about him.

"I've got no luck when it comes to women, Doc," the farmer started out.

Oh God, what now, Martin thought.

"Us old bachelors, we're not getting any younger," Robinson said, in a tone of shared intimacy that Martin resented. "I need to get a wife and bunch of kids to help carry on with the farming, to leave a legacy to after I'm gone. I had my eye on Liz Savoury, a tasty little thing just like her name says, from over Hillcrest Farm, near where your aunt lives. I got her to dance with me at the Portwenn Players Ball, but at the end of the night I could tell she was waiting for me to kiss her and I couldn't do it, Doc. I've never been partial to kissing and such and I just couldn't bring myself to do it. She lunged at me and I put her off by starting up talking about my dairy cows. She went off mad and hasn't talked to me since. I don't know what's wrong with me, Doc."

"Am I to understand you have… never… engaged in kissing, or, um, any other form of sexual contact?"

Robinson nodded. "It's not normal, is it Doc? My old Dad always said I wasn't normal but it's not that I don't have the interest. It's sort of a case of the flesh is willing but the spirit is weak."

"You may have a form of erotophobia. It's a general term that encompasses a range of specific phobias related to sexual contact and fear of engulfment, or alternately abandonment. Left untreated it could cause sufferers to avoid romantic relationships and other forms of intimacy. Some examples are genophobia, for instance, the fear of sexual intercourse. Or haphephobia, the fear of being touched, even in passing. Or philemaphobia, fear of kissing, which could be related to worries over germs or even, um… bad breath."

"I think you're onto something, Doc. I've always been sensitive to smells and I can't abide the thought of other people's breath or body odour. People think I'm just an old farmer, born with manure on my boots, but truth be told Doc I never liked it. It's a filthy business working with cows and such and I never would have chosen it for myself but my Dad forced me into following in his footsteps. He was a right bully he was, making me take over for him, and my Mum never cared enough to say a word about it…"

By now Martin could barely hear anything the man said, the pounding in his head was starting up again.

"I'm afraid this is beyond my expertise. I can refer you to a therapist in Wadebridge," he said, desperate not to hear any more about the man's dysfunctional personal life.

Finally, old white-haired Ella Thomas was the only one left in reception. She shuffled into his office and showed him a bright red open lesion on her lower lip.

"Never had a cold sore before, Doc. Can't imagine where I could have picked it up," she insisted.

"I don't suppose you're acquainted with Dave Jackson?" he muttered.

"Dave who?"

"Never mind," Martin said. He gave her the same instructions and prescription he'd given the teenage girls and let her go. He didn't care to probe any deeper into the situation. He'd had enough of the villagers and their sordid relationships. It was enough to put anyone off physical or emotional entanglements altogether.

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3: Potentially Delusional

The antique Frodsham clock in his office chimed 5 o'clock. Somehow he had managed to make it through the day, skipping lunch to get through it all faster. It was Friday and with luck he wouldn't have to see any of them again until Monday.

Preparing to leave for the day, Pauline sounded almost sympathetic as she suggested he have a lie down. Instead, he stepped out to the stone terrace in front for a bit of fresh air before thinking about what he might possibly want for supper. The breeze, the cry of seagulls, and the distant crashing of waves were soothing to his nerves. He sighed, closed his eyes, and let it wash over him a moment.

What had happened last night? Obviously Louisa wanted to get him drunk so she could seduce him. He had known perfectly well what she was up to and he was happy, excited even, to go along with it. Just as obviously no seduction had taken place. So what did happen? He had a vague memory that he had been talking too much, talking rubbish like an idiot. This, as much as the way it shut down his brain into sleep, was why he had long ago learned to severely limit his alcohol intake, which in turn made him even more susceptible when he did imbibe. From the look of things Louisa had gotten him to go through the better part of three bottles of wine with her. What was she thinking? Was it all another cruel prank designed to humiliate him in front of the whole village? Louisa didn't seem like the type. Still, why did she always have to be so exasperating?

He took another deep breath, let it go, opened his eyes, and there she was - striding up the hill straight toward him.

"I thought if you weren't used to drinking then you wouldn't know about this brilliant hangover cure," she said. "You see, I sometimes teach year six on a Monday morning. This is about the only thing that makes it possible. So…" She handed him a small bottle.

Marin accepted it. "Ah. Thank you."

She looked at the red welt on his forehead. "What happened to your head?"

"Oh, uh, nothing. Did you want to see me for some medical advice?"

"No. No. Just the morning after pill."

Martin was alarmed. "What?"

"Joking. Just a joke," she reassured him. "I just wondered if you wanted to see me, or if there was anything else you wanted to say before you passed out last night?"

The sense of humiliation came flooding back. "Uh… I embarrassed myself."

She smiled at him, and stepped closer. "No, you didn't embarrass yourself. And I'm really glad that you said what you said. And I just wish I'd had chance to say that…" she took a deep breath, "I do too." She paused again and came out with it. "I love you too."

He was astounded. Why would she say such a thing? She must have noticed his expression changed. "What?" she said.

"Uh, nothing." He started to feel the familiar panic, when a conversation with a woman – with this particular woman especially – started to get out of his control.

"No, what?"

Flustered, he cast about for an explanation, anything that would make sense of this mad situation. She was obsessed with him, yes that had to be it.

"Love, it's… uh…"

"Love is what?"

"It's a difficult word when you think that we don't actually know each other that well."

"Martin, we've known each other quite a while now."

"Yes, but strictly speaking, for you to say you love me when you can't possibly know that you do is, is, is...

Her expression and posture went from open to perplexed, with her arms crossed. "Is what?"

"Potentially delusional."

"Oh!"

"There are certain quite well-known disorders where…"

"What disorders?" she challenged him.

He dug in, dredging up from memory everything he knew about the condition. Hands clasped behind him as he lectured, there was no stopping him now. "Where a person falls, without good reason, for someone else and believes that they love them."

She was gobsmacked. "Pardon?"

"De Clérambault's Syndrome, for instance. Also known as erotomania. More common in women. They fall for an older man of a higher social standing, or a higher professional standing."

"Martin! What the hell are you talking about?"

"Delusional romantic attachments. Often associated with an excessive, uh, uh, intrusiveness into the life of the object of the, um, irrational affection. Stalking, if you like."

That's when she slapped him.

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4: Night Blooming Jasmine

Martin gasped. It was like cold water in his face. She turned on her heel and strode off down the hill. He had already forgotten what it was he'd been saying. He only had one thought now, and it was not the first time he had thought it - why was every conversation they had so combative? Everything he said just made things worse.

He went into the house, fixed himself a soft boiled egg and some whole meal toast. It was the only thing he'd had to eat all day. Tapping the eggshell, he regarded the bare wooden surface of the table.

A few weeks ago he had come upon Pauline and Al snogging there - right there on his kitchen table, where he ate his meals! Ugh! He had cleaned the surface with a two percent dilute solution of bleach. When he sat down to dinner later that evening it had smelled like a swimming pool, which assured him it was reasonably hygienic but interfered with his enjoyment of the bouillabaisse he had so painstakingly prepared. As revolting as was the memory of his receptionist and the plumber having their tryst on his table, he couldn't help imagining himself and Louisa engaging in the same activity in the same spot. The thought had recurred to him frequently since then.

Even so, when he actually had Louisa at his table last night, it seemed he was all talk and nothing more. He looked at the slim bottle she'd given him. Cocoanut water. He unscrewed the cap and took a swig. Ugh, vile stuff. What was the woman thinking? He finished his meagre dinner, drank some mineral water, took some more paracetamol, and went upstairs to get ready for an early bedtime. That was probably the only thing that would really help him feel better.

He sat in bed, trying to read the latest issue of the BMJ, but he couldn't concentrate, reading the same paragraph on the benefits of soluble fibre supplements in treating irritable bowel syndrome over and over. A hypnotic scent drifted through the open window. There was night blooming jasmine somewhere in the neighbourhood and sometimes when the breeze shifted in an odd direction the hypnotic scent came his way. He inhaled deeply, lay back, and let his mind wander.

He thought back to earlier yesterday, after Mrs. Tishell was taken away by ambulance. Louisa told him there were 20 things about him that were crap, but that he was like a stick of rock - Martin Ellingham all the way through. She told him that Danny was gone, she didn't want to talk about him, she only wanted to have a drink – a drink with _you_ Martin.

She brushed aside his objections and ordered him to wait for her and not move a muscle, like he was a truant schoolboy.

He felt a thrill of excitement as he stood there in the street, oblivious to everything around him, as she went in the shop for a bottle of wine. He had known a few women in his life who had the power to shake him up, but none ever had such a hold over him as this one did. Martin hated not being in control but at that moment he wanted nothing more than to surrender himself completely to her. He could hardly breathe awaiting her return.

Tonight when Louisa came up to him on the terrace, she said she had thought about what he said last night. So what had he said? He remembered talking about the viral gastroenteritus outbreak in her school recently and something about constipation.

Then it came to him - the sweet remembered sensation that they had kissed. Yes, last night he had leaned across the kitchen table and kissed her.

Tonight on the terrace she looked so adorable. He could just picture her with her hair up, wearing her orange jumper with the little buttons along the V-neck, where her cleavage was hidden by a hint of white camisole. He could hear her saying she loved him. More importantly, he could hear her saying she loved him _too_.

Why was he only hearing that now, thinking back? Then she looked so horrified by his response. Suddenly overcome with guilt, he berated himself for hurting her once again. No wonder he was alone. He didn't deserve her to show him any attention at all. He was no smarter about affairs of the heart than an awkward adolescent.

He felt the sting of her hand on his cheek as clearly as if she had just slapped him, and he was surprised to find the sensation excited him. He sank down in bed and slid his hand to his boxers. It was a warm night so that was all he had on.

To soothe himself his mind started to unreel what was a favourite fantasy lately. Louisa would call him to her school office on some pretext, then she would lock the door and draw the blinds. He could just picture her, with her blouse unbuttoned a little too low, her skirt worn a little too high, her pupils dilated and skin flushed from arousal. She would let down her long dark hair and whisper right in his ear _Martin, I need you_, begging him to have his way with her right there on her desk. He would sweep aside everything, push her onto her back, expertly strip off their clothes, and, himself now fully aroused, mount her with all the passionate confidence of a rutting stag as she moaned in pleasure beneath him.

That was how it was supposed to go.

But this time, Fantasy Louisa locked the door, drew the blinds, and turned her stern head mistress glare on him. She took down his trousers _(he began to move his hand harder and faster)_, and put him over her knee. She took a ruler to his bare bottom (_harder, harder_), and then slapped him with her bare hand, over and over (_faster, faster_), berating him for being naughty, oh so naughty, till he was moaning for forgiveness, and she was whispering _Martin, you need taking in hand_, and then she pushed him down on the desk and kissed him, oh so hard and sweet, as she grabbed him down below, and then she, and then she…. _Ohhhhhhh Louisa!_

Martin lay back, breathless, a bit shocked at himself. Gradually his blood oxygen level returned to normal and his pounding heart slowed to its resting rate.

He got up to wash himself off and splash water in his face. He returned to his bed, feeling his guilt purged, his emotions cleansed. The night breeze shifted back to its usual course, clearing away the jasmine and bringing into his bedroom only the pure scent of the sea. His mind was calm and in control again as he planned how he would make it up to Louisa.

Hmmm, he thought, tomorrow was the 26th, her birthday. He knew the date from her patient notes. He would track her down, give her a birthday card, and ask her out to dinner, someplace nice. That was what people did, wasn't it?

Next he would explain how he had misdiagnosed her. It was a mistake any health care professional could have made based on her initial presentation of symptoms, especially given his regrettable memory lapse of the night before, when really she should have respected his usual habit of temperance instead of plying him with wine. Once he laid it all out rationally she would forgive him, perhaps even apologize for slapping him. Then he would be ready to decide the next logical step in their relationship.

It was a good plan. It would be a very good day.

Satisfied, he drifted off to sleep, with a slight smile on his face.

_The End. _


End file.
